The trip to church on Sunday wasn't long
Down dry dusty country roads closer roamed
Hearts did rejoice when singing love's sweet song
Precious memories now deeply intoned
A home filled to the brim with kith and kin
No evidence of the grief she suffered
When in her youth tales of such loss did spin
By age of twenty-five her life crumbled
Joys of a young bride with husband beside
Darling daughters three in tow~gone~from life
Oh, life issues such hard brazen blows inside
No longer was she a mother and wife
Her faith in a loving God never failed
She had strength of character which prevailed
I have been doing some research about my biological family
I found that my father's mother was married in her youth
and had three daughters which all died as did her husband..
She married my grandfather and then had four sons which
all lived..She never gave up her faith through it all..What strength.
Inside a Sears store, at age 14,
I stopped to stare, with others there, in awe. . .
A dream achieved was on a TV screen:
Man’s first walk on the moon is what we saw.
Two decades passed, and I, then 35,
had lived thus far to see a mighty fall -
A celebration broadcast world-wide live:
The Cold War’s end; down came the Berlin Wall.
Born when the fight for Civil Rights began,
I’ve seen folks hated for their darker skin.
When I was 53, a black man ran
for president; the whole world saw him win!
Three things incredible in history
I’ve seen, which fan the flame of hope in me!
For Brian Strand's
A JEWEL IN YOUR CROWN any theme/form max 14 lines Poetry Contest
"Talking Leaves" fasinated Sequoyah
A Cherokee who accomplished great feats
In noble deed stands tall like a sequoia
Though lame fought beside Jackson no defeat
Success in battle 'pon warrior's horse
Winner in defeating illiteracy
He had an alphabet to endorse
After ten years effort deliberate
When his enlightment brought light, joy flowed
Then the Cherokee printing press spread news
Knowledge spread and troubled brewed discord sowed
The beginning of the "Trail Of Tears" diffuse
Sequoyah intelligent lone warrior
Battled to make his tribe superior
Sponsor: Shanity Rain
Contest: Native American People
Written: November 12, 2013
Throughout the days that followed, panic and carnage spread
The TV stations did their best to calm this human dread
All the hovering ships returned to whence they came
But thousands still appear above, New York now not the same
Communication now wanes, no power or mobile phones
You get a sense of feeling of being in a world that feels alone
Continual drones hum whilst the yellowed skies remain
Our planet we know as it was, will never be the same
Then came the day of reckoning as we all looked to the sky
A shuttle from the biggest ship lowered in hover fly
Suddenly the screens returned as we heard the visitors speak
We are ancestors of the Mayans, we treat as they were wreaked
From our original pasts demise, to earth we gave so long
To be part of here now gone, from an earth you once belonged
I turn to my girl highlighting Mayday is near
A day of spectacle that the whole village views
There's Jesters of folly and Knights without fear
Witnessing lances and jokes, always going askew
To view such we can venture along different ways
We can stroll by the river listening to many sounds
In awe as we walk amidst most wondrous displays
That on any given day beautiful vistas abound
Decisions, decisions, as we contemplate which way
It's such a special day wondering what to wear
Beauty personified will my Olive be on this day
Knights or Royal Princes, all they can do is stare
So tomorrow we've decided to be our chosen route
Two hearts in decision, declaring what's their suit
Mayday morn now greets as I turn next to me
She my guiding light as beautiful as the dawn
Excitement illuminates for into her eyes I see
Onto my back I lie, that feel she's now upon
Into this day we go heading along the river
Crystal clear translucent such serenity in it's flow
Under greened canopies cooled shaded deliver
Wafting leaved dress in delightful fanned throw
We sense the clearings near for scents we sense
Sporadic clusters in capture of welcoming eyes
Mayday games have started, distant heard suspense
Knights on horseback mounted, now in espy
Now we're in amidst encapsulated we now are
She's here to cheer, her Sir James, soon to spar
Balcony she now awaits, white steed he's now astride
Blinkered pairings gallop towards intended foe
To win this Mayday he, to fight for her his bride
Eliminate his enemy, witness his crimson flow
His lance in now connect, thrown metal disperses
Petals of beauty hurled of rainbows selected
Images of we, now thinking marital rehearses
To know on this day, her intended she's elected
Moments of their previous now in recent past
Knowing they're now free in kaleidoscopic stream
Spectrum of feelings now in view full cast
In colourful extremes, fight for your dreams
THE BOMBING OF DRESDEN
February 13, 1945
Pathfinders lit the night to show the way
for bombardiers too hungry for the word;
as Dresden's dark was made as light as day,
all hearts were stopped before the blasts were heard;
and as the din was heard by all their ears
the sound it made was not reality
but far removed from all the hopes and fears
and what they thought would never come to be.
They loved the Fuhrer--sin enough for all
to die the fiery death of sweet revenge
brought on by those who had enough of gall
to drop their loads in wartimes heated binge!
And when the fire consumed all that it could
the winter of their lives was understood.
“…when power narrows the areas of man’s
concern, poetry reminds him of the richness
and diversity of his existence…”
—John F. Kennedy
Medieval misery crushing citizens;
Shackled: grueling, clanging, negativity
Middle Passage past, plaguing, yet frightens;
Intense insanity—gangs captivity!
Draining dreams and desires from hearts—slashed:
Ancestral destruction, devastating;
Bones protruding from ribs, weakening—lashed;
Sight yet sickening, distraught, disgusting!
Will God speak in molding humanity?
Will His divine grace cleanse such evil souls?
Self posed dictators, fool’s insanity
Greed in governing—crushing others’ souls!
Where art thou, Master of the Universe?
Hold not thy hands while the poor suffer worst!
© Joseph, 10/1/08
© All Rights Reserved
Semi finalist contestant
292 out of 887 submissions
June 1, 2009 International Contest
Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine;
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.
has a two story part,
a one story part,
a new part,
an old part
and an antique part.
Gables and pediments facing all directions of the compass
Tie all the parts together.
There are some concave outside walls;
There are some convex Inside walls.
The house breathes.
It sees with its many large window lights;
Knowing where the kids are,
Watching the horses kick up their heels,
Catching glimpses of new spring kittens
scurrying out from under the porch,
Seeing with watchful eyes
as the kids ski behind flying horses,
Keeping an eye on the dog
herding the grand-baby away from the corrals.
Seeing the skunks, racoons, foxes and coyotes
slip by as we sleep,
They brace against the winds
as they turn from south to north.
The glass in the antique part ripples
keeping the view in constant motion –
The grand antique porch has hosted birthdays; graduations; weddings;
rendezvous and funerals.
Giving sanctuary to many a friend
needing a place to come and sit in quiet for a while
The house takes comfort from the music of a whistle
coming from the workshop.
Then watching the kids go, one at a time.
Then the whistler was gone –
Yet it still holds out its arms and wings and peaks
securely protecting its remaining occupant.
The house suits me,
it is my eye candy,
it holds my heart.
I will live my last in this house
surrounded by my life.
~In A Day Like Today~
For winter,kind of cool here,yes,it was
Very nice today,completed quite some,a bit
Then just relaxed,reflected 'long,did sit
After many chores I've done,took a pause
Read in 1927 Dr.Seuss marri'd Helen Palmer
In 1927, King Tut's tomb was discovered too
Many events in a day like today
Befell.Some good,some bad,catchy scar or star.
Turn off TV.Only depressing,joyless shows
Today,writing here another new sonnet
Now,again,for a third day in a row
Mulling over,just surfing round the net.
In 1877,Edison his crank'd phonograph play'd
In 1981,famed,actress Natalie Wood died.
Dorian Petersen Potter
In the near future, I am going to add it all up into one big sum.
In the meantime, I am going to gather and collect my own space.
I will sift through seeds or weeds and present an enormous case.
But for sure I will hold onto every single yellow chrysanthemum.
In the near future, I am going to roll it all up sealing it by my thumb.
In the meantime, I am going to sit here with every turned about face.
I will drift through time rewinding the hands back to a God of Grace.
But for sure I will give the world a place my heart is triumphing from.
Quickly, I will come to you,
And instantly I will be gone.
But injustice shall never do.
Nor shall a lie be my spawn.
Or at the least not on my expedient silver polished dime,
And certainly not while sitting on destiny’s perch in time!
® Registered: Ann Rich 2009
Many and many years ago back when
Many were poor and poverty was real
Lay offs happened_momma got fired then
We lived rural with pork, dry peas for a meal
Daddy worked, my brother worked a job too
So there was some money to pay those bills
Extras were not thought of_real needs accrue
Then my aunt came with clothes_now not dullsville
They pulled out this purple skirt with those buttons
Purple buttons how I loved those jewels
Quickly at once they said too mature, hon
Snip went those buttons_no bombshell
Pressed the skirt_wrinkles gone poverty stayed
Today those purple buttons mood arrayed
Sponsor: Blacked Eyed Susan
My Heart beats faster when I touch my Gun
Loch David Crane,
Border Patrol Auxiliary
26 January 2010
We track illegal aliens in the snow.
It's easy to see where their booties go.
But "huddled masses yearning to breathe free"
should wait in line and come here legally.
Your thievery dishonors those who came
here legally, but have Latino names.
If you, like others, waited patiently
we'd welcome you "from sea to shining sea."
"Observe, report, direct" and document:
these lawful practices are our intent.
On nights like this, lit brightly by the Moon,
I monitor the freqs from our comms room.
My heart beats faster when I touch my gun:
it's in the holster empty, safety on.
(freqs are frequencies on the radio in the Communications center.)
Earth Is A Beta Test
the original platform took six days
a man and woman were added the mix
with one fruit forbidden see how it plays
two brothers added one died by this fix
scramble the language by changing the code
then drop in ten plaques to make it all clear
man now a virus must reboot the load
flood all the land on the compromised sphere
send a messiah to work as a tech
new rules are installed to fix the O' S'
as the time moves on the programs a wreck
too many errors the systems in stress
the purpose of beta is do a test
perhaps the next version will be the best
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
Blindfolding Justice, lest the blind might see,
what tyrany's been passed down countless years
by those who make the claim, nobility
are all the ties that bind through death and tears.
What manner of a man stands up to these
annointed to the reign passed down by name?
No archer known to anyone who sees,
could suffer all, lest freedom is his flame.
Do endings end it all, or just begin
the pure of thought, that life is meant to please?
Though he was dragged and naked for his sin,
are kings not lost, and fallen to their knees?
And yet, their holding on is all life shows,
Through centuries royalty still comes and goes.
© ron Arbuthnot
THE DEATH OF TUTANKHAMEN
The king is dead--and layed within his place,
and night has fallen as it did before,
within his tomb he hides his golden face
and waits to live and breath and love once more;
a grain of sand will last as long has he--
young man--did they not tell you in your youth
That time will fade away, and secretly,
while you await, to feel and know the truth?
And Tutankhamen, time will not reveal
the secrets of the past, they fade away--
and all the things you long to know and feel
are gone before they see the light of day.
How old are you, young man, four thousand years--
or just as old as all our hopes and fears?
You're just as old, I guess, as any dream
and just as far away as space permits,
improvident sometimes, and yet we seem
agglomerated to a life that fits--
We come and go--in circumspectful daze--
disgruntled in our youth, and growing old,
and never seem to see the proper ways
and disinclined to hear the things we're told--
exhonerating all that we have known,
who take until there's nothing left to give,
for life is just a path that we have flown,
from other dreams, where other dreamers live.
This mass we call "myself" will soon return
to heaven space, or maybe it will burn.
The power in us all is dominant--
just as the time of Tutankhamens womb,
from birth we go through life--intransigent
and hope the best will be beyond the tomb.
We hope that space is part of better things
just as belief--in Akhen Atens day,
we feel the same as did Egyptian kings
who looked at life as where they'd choose to stay;
exacerbated, as we live and grow,
to better space, than what we have and feel,
and though it's part of life we do not know--
it's just as dear--and just as harsh and real.
How old are we? Not one could estimate,
and if they did, they'd tilt the hands of fate.
The pylon gates that lead to peace of mind
are open to the ones who search at night,
but truth in life is sometimes hard to find
and pyramids block out the glow of light--
while deep below--mastabas hold the past
and keep it safe--from any mortal eyes--
with stores of grain--while sun gods gold and cast,
stare into space--where only darkness lies--
and Tutankhamens silence is a thing
to last five thousand years of growing old,
at best--his wish was but to be the king
within a life that's cast and locked in gold--
and Akhen Aten knows he is okay
that's why he will not lead his soul astray
but Akhen Aten hides his face at night--
and southern breezes cool the scorching air,
and any sound is whispered soft and light--
because there's no one list'ning anywhere;
nomadic tribes have perched upon his rock,
and never knew that Tutankhamen hears--
each sound of life--each key that could unlock
his mortal soul--if they would use their ears,
if they would see--the sun god is a friend,
and leads to light, where Tutankhamen sleeps,
how many minds would see his mortal end--
is not his death--though in our mind it creeps--
and takes away the youth of ev'ry man
and sends it to the time where time began;
How old are you--young man--why do you stare?
The world awaits for you to raise your soul--
though fettered to the wind--and ev'rywhere,
in time a dream will make you free and whole--
to walk again--the Valley of the Kings
and ride upon the waters of the Nile--
where spirits bathe, and Nephritite sings,
the secrets of the past--for yet a while,
the world is obdurate of any scheme,
that brings new life--once death has made its' call
though greater men than you--have known this dream,
not one still hides behind his secret wall--
and no remains--stay hidden to the past--
if golden chains are known to hold them fast.
© ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
(A Cornish Sonnet)
Behold new green enchants the distant plain,
where once the hooves of hundreds thundered on,
as braves drew aim in hunger for those slain
and eagles soared aloft through purple haze.
In drumbeat's pulse, flames flickered near the dawn,
outlining dancers shadowed in the blaze.
Where spirit wind played priest to man and beast,
a pale moon's face exposed betrayers' lies,
and red man's rage clawed forth to find release.
Dry dust storms swept the ranchers' dreams aside;
throughout the land echoed the victims' cries,
in land that once ramped up a home-born pride.
Behold new green enchants the distant plain,
where spirit wind played priest to man and beast.
cfa © 5/14/2010
I peer into your depth bypass my reflection
See an image of another day out of time,
Mingled with spirit calling for one’s affection
Lurid evidence still of industrial grime.
Yet this fertile inspiration moved a nation
Arteries connected living channels of hope,
Creation of working class whom knew their station
Seeking a desire for work each day they did grope
To touch the water ripples flow and circles spread
The cut healed with sutures holding tight bank to bank
My sentiment grows with each circle cast thy bread
Eyes look into mine from the waters depth are blank
Bypass my reflection I see yours looking up
Your maker took those with no silver spoon to sup
Collaboration by Harry J Horsman & Mandy Tams
In these, our final days before the end,
come in a moment, faster than the eye,
'tis easy to believe, and comprehend
what lies beyond the end, is not to die;
We'll go as one, together to the last,
a world snuffed out, by something closing in,
that's been ten billion years, and coming fast
but we won't see it coming until then;
the speed it flies is something out of dreams,
much faster than a thought, it will be there,
and what we see won't be just what it seems
until the last, we'll see it everywhere.
In this, the end, out of necessity
we'll all believe, then we'll be history.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
CIL MAOLCHEADAIR (Kilmalkedar)
On such an Irish spring and drizzle morn,
she wandered through the graveyard, looking for
the Celtic dream from which her past was born,
and every sight brought her to wanting more;
she dreamt her roots from carvings on a stone
as if she understood each chip as real,
passed down to only her, and her alone,
from pagan worship she could almost feel;
and she could bundle them within her mind
to share with Pennsylvania kith and kin,
perhaps the magic, if still there to find,
would be an understanding where they've been;
and she will burn her candles every night,
hoping Kilmalkedar will make it right.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
A child himself, just a boy with a bike
who gave a lift to a twelve year old girl
on his handlebars, down a county road.
Neither could know that a killer would strike
or that some of Lynn Harper’s becoming curls
would softly house blow flies, maggots and toads.
Unspeakable acts, a horrific crime,
Then a fourteen year old was crucified,
Remember the name of Stephen Truscott,
a teenager who served ten years of time
because Justice lied.
*A curtal sonnet rhyme scheme, though mine is not iambic pentameter
In June of 1959, Stephen Truscott, 14, was charged with the rape and murder of 12 year old Lynn Harper. The investigation was rushed and badly botched. Stephen testified that he dropped her off an intersection and watched as she got into a car. Witnesses were ignored and the evidence was circumstantial, yet Stephen spent 10 years in prison. After years of decrying his innocence, the Canadian government awarded him 6.5 million dollars in 2008 for a miscarriage of justice.
These supple young hands, so innocent,
Not yet to touch though tempted in dreams,
But still I have no need to repent,
Though I am truly not what I seem!
In body I am surely chaste.
Did temptation not whisper at my door
And wrap my nubile mind in hot embrace?
But - for his love I surely can endure!
For love of God and Jesus I can last
And share my passion in my art.
Mortal love may never reach to grasp
Eternal love that gladly keeps my heart.
So this soul of mine will find its rest
With no regret of honor on my breath.
Modern Sonnet written for Cyndi's Contest
Inspired by the story of Sofonisba Anguissola
And her Self-Portrait with Clavichord, 1561
ON THE BREAK OF A NEW DAWN
In the still of night we contemplate the dawn of a day
when we shall be free of the mind games shadowing
liberation sustained by generations whose lives were
put on hold: lives often ending in holes.
The chiming moments of the shades of night strike nerves
playing blues/jazz/gospels awakening dormant minds
to the un-televised revolution whose seeds were sown
in the youth of fertile convoluted brain matter.
Each stilled night, in its season, generates new revelations
revealing the I am because they are the steady black bridges
spanning over the paths that with blood had been watered…
Steady black bridges over which we have crossed over on.
Yet, despite the toils and tribulations of these ancestor
travelers, we’ve forgotten the blood debt to be paid.
Now is the time to let Jordan Roll like the rolling thunder
that follows the flashing lightening! Now is the time
to grasp the baton the torch bearers have passed on to us;
and pursue the dream’s vision to the reality that must be.
The fathers and mothers who have gone before us, must
not wallow in sunken graves of disappointment.
Indeed the ball is now in our court and now is the time.
Let us lay up new legacies for those in the darkness of wombs;
let us lay up new legacies that they may follow the light
of a new day…dawning with the power of the Lion of Judah!
Now is the time; yesterday is gone and tomorrow is too late.
Now is the time: People get ready…there’s a train a’coming…
May 31, 2010
I sprout with a surprise springing forth from me today.
Birds sing such a magnificent most pleasurable praise.
I want to be the one He promised soon He would raise.
I will be celebrated all by myself on that God-given day.
I will stand in His Gracious Glory at His appointed Say.
Yesterday will be but a blurring faded haze, life a craze.
He sets my soul on fire and sets my spirit off in a blaze.
I bet I will buzz like a bee zipping by you each May Day!
It is all in a day just for me to say.
Ta! Da! I’d bet you did not realize!
May Day! May Day! I say let’s play!
Walla! I say May Day’s materialize!
Waiting every May Day is loads of fun,
Unbelievably, May Day is never done!
®Registered: Ann Rich 2010
The Linlithgow Marches
On the first Tuesday after
The second Thursday in June
A day steeped in history
Marches day in Lithca Toon
The royal charter granted
Back in thirteen eighty nine
Demands the border riding
To keep all the laws in line
When mustered at the town cross
pipes playing ‘the roke and row’
The good folk of Linlithgow
Bring the past into the now
It is Linlithgow’s mission
A proudly held tradition
Brian’s ‘sonnet me’ contest 21st April 2010
Marches Day- the riding of the borders of the royal burgh of Linlithgow
‘roke and the row’—a pipe tune played at sunrise on marches day
Lithca Toon—Linlithgow town
The generous seas do roam vividly,
And sacred words spoken earnestly.
People suffer and people go to war,
I just hope these words will go afar.
Yesterday I published a FREE book,
Indeed a feat of altruism, no crook!
I suffer in silence in every moment.
I have no money to publish a stunt.
I was just hoping for word-of-mouth
And email propagation as loudmouth.
Book is at: http://bookbooster.com/newage.htm
I accept feedback just at: email@example.com
OFFICIALLY THE MOST ELOQUENT STORY TELLING POETRY BOOK EVER WRITTEN
-ALL NON FICTION- (This spiel typed in the spur of the moment - God Bless you)
On this infamous, tragic date of January twenty first, two thousand thirteen,
surreptitious, long orchestrated events gave way to an ambiguous elation.
Such an ironic, accepting, joyous treason has never been seen,
The culmination of the Trojan horse take over of a once great nation.
On freedom and hope, “winners” closed their own iron gated curtain,
Their votes for “change” and “choice” had sealed their own negative fate,
Definitions of good and evil exchanged, that much is certain.
Lies flew like flies from an angel of light in a fiery lake.
The majority voted for a self proclaimed Godless administration,
Again, they knew much better than God and deemed themselves higher,
And conformed His laws to the usual “ I’m worth it” reconfiguration.
Happily roasting themselves on their own funeral pyre.
On the date of this “ominous party” take over.
The Constitution was happily thrown to Rover.
SARAJEVO - CITY OF PALACES
Each hall in every palace is a death
that's been for cen'tries; never ask it why;
it leads the hearts of men, in ev'ry breath
to join the call to arms, and go to die.
and what has led them on is what's been willed
to handed down, and what's been going on;
the shackles then are forged, the cup is filled
to overflowing with each troubled dawn.
Why else but Sarajevo is the cause?
Division of a way of life they live,
if you should ask them why, they say it was,
and so it is; it's all that life can give.
The beauty that was Sarajevo's charm
will come and go with every call to arm.
© Ron Arbuthnot aka Ron Wilson
On the sands of time
How will his feet print on the sands of time?
The query he is so bothered to ask
Emirates, ere hit and run dashes his rhyme
And creates deep holes of vast pending task.
Will those little lights yet glow when he’s gone?
Or will they die off when he’s in that hole?
This, he meditates in his deepest lone,
Scribbles verse, should unexpected grips whole.
Placer orb was where he conceived this tongue;
Whence his momentary opt to torch the ground
Ere it will be too late to dong a gong-
Then the planet will guest still air of sound.
For the world abrupt visitors, he scribes
This anon writ, ere God sends His un-bribes.
knowledge and nescience define the cursed
patience and impatience battling for a burst
perseverance and despair fighting for attention
all gathering in their other layer of retention
courage to reinvent right and wrong
willingness to admit the unnoticed prong
hearts and souls in unwanted asylum
all carrying their still hidden alum
untold stories define private secrecy
as printed in black hopefully a temporarily legacy
united in past the cracks still display
no tarrying of the little Light leading to their place to stay
lighting the candles such a simple valiant radiant gesture
assimilating the Light should enshroud a renewed vesture
(c) Elly Wouterse 2015
Look in this glass, and tell me if you can see a little devil in;
But, I`m afraid you cannot do it today, so let it pass;
Another day`s impatient breath, another person you have seen:
So let your lazy shadow lying in the powdered grass;
Ask the old King Lear to let you comb his long white beard;
Enjoy this frozen sky in which ancestors’ eyes met old mystery;
Multitudes of aged persons so fond of the white tomb, I heard
As being hung by white dreams of self-love, and cold posterity;
Matusalemes of great expectations still live gloriously in thee.
Bring the white seasons for other tomorrow learning to smile;
So through the windows of this misunderstood freedom, you see
Despite of wrinkles of our earth and heaven, this is patience`s time.
But if you have seen the little devil in the mirror, this could be
The old tempter moving a mountain, from other realm for thee...